


The Doctor and the Semi-Dark Prince

by sgam76



Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Because apparently my fluff requires vampires, Fluff, Gen, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No Mary Morstan, Vamp!lock, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Mycroft Holmes delivers a convalescent Sherlock back to John's care. But that care isn't quite what John expected--and, as it turns out, Sherlock and Mycroft aren't quite what John expected, either.NOTE: This is a continuation of A Sharp, Dressed Man. You'll really want to read that one first, or this won't completely make sense.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I decided that we really needed to hear John's side of the Sharp, Dressed Man story. Now, I know maryagrawatson is going to want to smack me for writing more Vamplock, but Rosefinch_Kinneret12 has volunteered to take the hit for me (so ya'll can organize that between yourselves--have fun).
> 
> This won't be long, so it won't hold up Redemption by much. 2 or 3 chapters, tops, and it's only a WIP in the broadest sense, as it's at least 3/4 written already. I just really, really needed to write something light right now.

It probably said something significant about John Watson, that Mycroft Holmes announcing that Sherlock was a vampire didn’t strike him as the strangest experience of his life. Now, granted, finding out that vampires existed, _really_ and _truly_ , no kidding, _honest-to-God_? _That_ was a shock, and it did take three or four repetitions, in Mycroft’s blandest voice, for John to realize that the bureaucrat wasn’t having him on (unlikely though that seemed).

Once they were over that hurdle, though, and John had a few minutes to think about it (while making tea—always a good option when remaking one’s worldview from scratch), he could definitely see Sherlock as a vampire. Tall, rake-thin, attractive in a Byronesque way, most active in the wee hours and, above all, staggeringly pale—yep, that fell right in with every horror movie trope John had ever seen.

The bigger shock, though, was thinking of _Mycroft_ as a vampire. Mycroft, who was also pale, certainly, and thin enough—but who looked, if you didn’t see him clearly (i.e., when that occasionally-ruthless, terrifyingly intelligent personality shone through), like a chartered accountant or a member of the Cambridge Classics faculty.

To be fair, John didn’t really think it through that first day—not when Mycroft half-carried his brother up the stairs, and the younger Holmes looked like a survivor of a prison camp.

John hadn’t expected this; Mycroft had called, when Sherlock was rescued, to let him know that the detective was alive, but very weak, very ill—ill enough that he was taken directly to some shadow facility, presumably, rather than being brought back to London immediately. When the older man called back, only three days later, saying that his brother was well enough to continue his recovery at Baker Street, John was both relieved and confused—how could Sherlock have gone from “desperately ill” to “convalescent” so quickly?

And the drooping figure, one thin arm slung over his brother’s back, did look somewhat beyond the “desperately ill” stage, though it was a matter of opinion whether he qualified as “convalescent”. He was shockingly thin—John estimated he’d lost nearly two stone, which seemed impossible in ten days. His skin was ashen, his hair limp, and the bags under his eyes were an ugly blue-grey and much too large for comfort. The eyes above those bags were half-closed, and Sherlock gave no indication he was aware of his location, or of John’s presence.

Mycroft had hauled Sherlock straight to his bed, and the detective sank gratefully into the clean sheets Mrs. Hudson had lovingly supplied, dropping instantly into sleep. John hovered anxiously in the doorway, wanting to do his own wellness checks but hesitant to interrupt his friend’s much-needed rest.

“The trip was too much for him, this early in his recovery. He was doing much better before we left,” Mycroft said, moving them both briskly back towards the lounge. “I expect he will be much improved by this evening. But we need to talk about the special care he will need, which I am hoping you will be comfortable with supplying.” As he spoke, one of his aides (“ _minions_ ”, he could almost hear Sherlock saying) came up the stairs, laden with a good-sized insulated cooler, complete with power cord, and two large carrier bags. Anthea followed the man, with what looked like a very expensive blender in her arms. The blender and the carrier bags were placed carefully on the small open area of the kitchen table, the cooler plugged in beside the fridge, before both Anthea and the minion bobbed their heads politely at John (though Anthea’s face had a hint of a smirk) and left.

At that point, things took a sharp turn towards the bizarre. Mycroft sat primly on the couch and waited for John to settle on the far end, then opened his mouth and began a discourse on vampirism, while John blinked and tried not to think about sectioning a Minor Governmental Official. That, of course, led to Mycroft ultimately giving an aggrieved huff, holding out his hands, and sliding ten shiny black claws from under his fingernails. He concluded his performance by opening his eyes wide, revealing an unnerving phosphorescence, and capped everything off by sliding four impressive, and previously hidden, teeth into view in his upper and lower jaw.

John didn’t quite need to breathe into a bag, but he couldn’t deny that he thought about it.

Mycroft, to his credit, allowed John his brief moment of astonishment before taking the conversation in hand once again. “I’m sure you will have many questions, once you have had a chance to digest this further. However, our time at present is limited—I have a rather urgent matter which requires my presence in Brussels, so I must ask that you hold your queries until I return. We should, however, walk through the dietary aspects of Sherlock’s care before I go, and review the expected course of my brother’s recovery.” He gave John a confiding look. “As you might expect, our recuperative powers are rather better than yours. But you need to be aware of the potential issues, in the unlikely event that he encounters any kind of setback.”

What followed was a tutorial in the preparation of what were essentially blood smoothies: a mix of packaged blood (from the cooler, which contained three days’ supply, according to Mycroft), protein powder, bone broth, sugar and frozen fruit. As per Mycroft, Sherlock would require one of these every four hours, for the next three to four days.

Mycroft crafted one of these drinks as he talked, pulsing the blender until the mixture was whipped into a light pink, frothy foam. It smelled vile. He decanted it into a mug and inserted a short straw, and they walked together into Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft gently jogged his brother’s shoulder, and ice-pale eyes cracked groggily open, long enough for Sherlock to sip most of the cup before dropping back into sleep with a contented sigh.

“You see?” Mycroft said, with a smug smile. “Not in any way difficult. Starting tomorrow mid-day, he can also begin adding solid food, unless he has problems in the interim.” He was already edging his way towards the stairs as he spoke. “I will leave you a contact number for emergencies, but I don’t expect you will have any need for it. We can speak further when I return—most likely, late tomorrow evening, or early the following day.” And with that, he was gone.

 

 

 

That first day wasn’t difficult. While Sherlock slept on, John reorganized the supplies so that smoothie-making would be quick and efficient, and skimmed through the one book Mycroft had brought along, with the stern admonition that he would be reclaiming it upon his return. It was fascinating—a treatise on vampire metabolism, highlighting the adaptations in the digestive and endocrine systems.

Vampire children, while able to tolerate blood in small quantities from birth, didn’t actually _need_ it until puberty, when their systems stopped producing the normal digestive enzymes unless stimulated by the consumption of blood. From that point on, vampires could subsist solely on blood (though not without eventually suffering from a host of vitamin deficiencies), or a combination of blood and normal food, but not on food alone. Deprived of blood, vampires suffered intractable vomiting when trying to eat solids, and catastrophic weight loss and weakness as their body broke down blood and muscle in an effort to sustain itself. While they were preternaturally strong in other ways, vampires could easily die of blood deprivation in a matter of days.

The doctor in John thought of Sherlock’s ravaged appearance, and shuddered at the realization of how close to the edge his friend must have been. The only consolation was the vastly-improved healing ability also inherent in vampire physiology—if the book was correct, even Sherlock’s dire state could be largely reversed within a week or so.

John followed Mycroft’s regimen religiously throughout the day, waking Sherlock every four hours for another horrific “shake”, which the detective downed without protest (though, also, without any real awareness). He remained profoundly asleep in between. He was also frighteningly weak: John had to half-carry Sherlock to the toilet and back, and tuck him into bed like a child.

Toward evening, though, things started to change. Sherlock woke on his own for the first time, calling John’s name, just at dinnertime. John bustled towards Sherlock’s bedroom, feeling a large grin crease his face.

“Well, Sleeping Beauty,” he beamed, “how are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Sherlock said. “Back to the way I felt this morning.” He flushed slightly. “The trip was more exhausting than I anticipated. I apologize for the level of care you have been required to provide.”

John scoffed at that, suddenly finding himself emotional and trying not to be embarrassed about it. “I’m just glad to see you alert and reasonably coherent.” He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, considering a hug but unsure how comfortable Sherlock would be with such close contact. He contented himself with reaching out a hand and clasping his friend’s bony shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you, period, actually. I was…it was…” he trailed off, before reining things in and making himself continue. “I was afraid they wouldn’t find you in time,” he husked.

Sherlock made a disparaging sound. “You should know by now that I am extremely hard to kill. And now you have a better understanding why.” Which was true, if history was any guide—but not entirely comfortable to contemplate, considering the toll some of the previous attempts and near-misses had taken on the detective.

John took the opportunity to take a closer look at Sherlock, now that he was doing better—he hadn’t wanted to stress the man earlier, when just staying awake long enough to sip from a cup was a struggle. The shadows were still there under his eyes, but the eyes themselves were now clear and sparking with interest and intelligence. Sherlock was critically thin—that would take some work to rectify; John would have to enlist Mrs. H’s help with that front. But, overall, he looked a different person than the one Mycroft had dragged up the stairs this morning.

John stood and nodded towards the kitchen. “You ready for another smoothie?” he asked. “I can make a bit extra, now that you’re awake. I think you’d do better if we don’t have to wake you in the night for a refill.”

Sherlock huffed, and turned to drop his legs over the side of the bed. “I’d prefer a bacon butty from Speedy’s. And perhaps some chips,” he said, standing carefully before wobbling towards the bathroom. “I’m _starving_.”

John looked after Sherlock’s departing back before responding. “But Mycroft said you weren’t to have solids until tomorrow,” he said uncertainly. “Are you sure—”

“Mycroft’s an old woman,” Sherlock replied. “And I’m _hungry_. I’ll be fine,” he continued, before shutting the bathroom door.

John stood in the kitchen doorway, undecided. His instincts told him to provide as many calories as Sherlock could tolerate. Mycroft _did_ know vampire metabolism, though. But John didn’t want to make Sherlock feel as though John was treating him like a child…

He went to Speedy’s.

Sherlock came tottering in from the bathroom, freshly showered, with a towel wrapped turban-like around his head and a dressing gown covering his clean pajamas. “Much better,” he sighed, dropping into a chair and holding out his hands for the bag from Speedy’s. John made him a smoothie to go with it, and Sherlock tucked everything away with gusto, before walking, almost steadily, to the couch.

Thirty minutes later, John was realizing that he _should_ have treated Sherlock like a child.

It had started well enough. Sherlock settled on the couch with a happy sigh. John tucked an afghan around him, while he busied himself with drying his hair. John dropped onto the other end of the couch and turned on an episode of Top Gear—Sherlock would usually tolerate that.

They had sat together contentedly for fifteen minutes or so before John noticed that Sherlock had gotten very quiet—the usual flow of snarky comments had trailed off, then ceased entirely. John looked him over warily, and saw that the little bit of colour that had returned to his face had now fled, and Sherlock was bone-white and shaking slightly. John had just started to ask him if he wanted to return to bed when the detective jerked up, clapped his hand over his mouth and launched himself towards the bathroom.

He almost made it. John gave him points for trying, anyway.

With the practiced air of a medical professional who had dealt with much worse things, John caught Sherlock around the waist and deposited him in front of the toilet, then went resignedly to clean up the mess in the kitchen floor. He took his time, while listening with one ear as miserable sounds continued to waft up the hall from the loo. He assumed that Sherlock would prefer to maintain whatever dignity he could find in this situation, so he didn’t want to hover.

Twenty minutes later, though, Sherlock was still hunched, shuddering, on the floor next to the toilet. John had tried to coax him up twice, only to have his friend jerk back to bring up more bile laced with blood. ( _Normal_ , he reminded himself—vampire normal, anyway, as alarming as it looked). He finally manhandled Sherlock back to bed, set a bin beside him, and made another smoothie—he was becoming a bit concerned, given the book’s references to “intractable vomiting”.

Sherlock grimaced, screwing his eyes closed, but sucked the disgusting mixture through his straw in a determined way, then laid back on the pillows, exhausted.

Fifteen minutes later, when the smoothie met the same fate as the food from Speedy’s, John gave up and called his emergency number. He was out of his depth, and growing more worried by the minute. He wasn’t the least surprised, when the phone was answered, to realize he was speaking with Anthea. He rapidly explained the situation, and asked if Mycroft had placed a specialist on call that he could refer to.

“Someone will meet you there shortly,” she said, and hung up.

While Sherlock rested in an uneasy doze in the bedroom, John hovered anxiously in the lounge, waiting for his “expert” to arrive. He planned to secure the expert’s contact information, no matter how reluctant he or she might be to supply it—he never wanted to feel this unprepared again. After an hour, when he heard Mrs. H. answer the door, he trotted down the stairs in relief—and found himself face to face with Greg Lestrade.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's "expert" has arrived, and helps get Sherlock back on the right track, though not without a bit of Sherlockian drama in the middle.

John was…well, _shocked_ , basically, to realize that his hoped-for “expert” was _Greg Lestrade_. A lot of that shock came from the further realization that this meant that Greg had known about the Holmes brothers for years, and not told John—never so much as hinted at it, despite having sat with John through several vigils in A &Es and hospital rooms, while Sherlock was treated for an array of illnesses and injuries. It was startling that none of those treatment regimens had turned up anything unusual in patient workups—Mycroft’s hand was visible there, perhaps.

Once Mrs. H. had been hustled back into her own flat, Greg raised his eyebrows expectantly and nodded towards the stairs, and John trotted obediently up with Greg close behind. Once at the top, John pushed the door emphatically shut and spun to face his friend.

“You _knew_ ,” he said. “All this time, and you let me treat him, or oversee his treatment, dozens of times, without knowing something pretty damn critical about him.” He found himself glaring, and couldn’t seem to stop.

Lestrade threw his hands up in surrender. “Peace, peace,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you, unless it was truly life-threatening.” He pointed towards the bedroom. “That one’s brother is pretty high up in their society, as well as ours. I don’t think he’d ever actually ‘disappear’ me, but I wouldn’t like to put it to the test. Myc does have a temper, you know.”

“Wait, ’Myc’?” John blurted, momentarily thrown off track. “You call him ‘Myc’?”

“Well, yeah,” Greg said. “I won’t say we’re _close_ , exactly, but we _are_ friends, of a sort. I mean, I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Sherlock. And, let’s face it, we’ve had a common goal for a lot of that time. Hard not to make some connection, under those circumstances.”

And, John realized, he’d been enlisted in that same cause, in the end: keeping Mycroft Holmes’ baby brother alive and at least marginally sane. Did that make Mycroft _his_ friend as well? He’d have to think about that one at some point.

 

 

John ran through the events of the evening, starting with Sherlock’s ill-fated request for real food. Greg’s eyebrows raised right up at that.

“Didn’t Myc tell you not to give him solid food until tomorrow?” he asked. “I know Anthea mentioned that he wasn’t due to start until then, when she called.”

John had already mentally bludgeoned himself on that issue for several hours now. “He was really hungry,” he said defensively, and heard how weak that sounded, even as he said it. “And I wanted…he should be able to make informed decisions about his own care.”

Greg’s eyebrows climbed even higher. “Because he’s so _good_ at that, and it’s worked out so well in the past.” The sarcasm was not lost on John. Greg shook his head sorrowfully. “You’re an enabler, mate.”

“I… yeah,” John sighed, and left it at that.

 

 

 

When they reached Sherlock’s bedroom, John found that his friend was still only semi-conscious, in a half-sleep which made it difficult to get a response from him on how he felt.

“He’s really very drowsy. It’s almost like he’s sedated, the last hour or more,” John said worriedly. “I haven’t given him anything orally—he can’t keep anything down. He’s not running fever, so I didn’t even try injectable paracetamol.”

“Yeah, they get like that when physical stress reaches a high enough point, and they’re not retaining enough nutrients or blood,” Greg said. “Basically, they shut down to a low level to conserve their remaining resources.” He sat on the bed by Sherlock’s head and gently shook him, with no visible results. “If it goes on too long, though, they just never wake up.”

Greg leaned forward and put one large hand to the side of Sherlock’s face, brushing the flyaway curls back. “ _Lock_ ,” he said, firmly and rather loud. “Show me your eyes, son.” He brushed the hand along Sherlock’s face again, and this time the younger man’s head came up slightly, and pale eyes opened, very slowly. The pupils were large and dark, much more than normal for the well-lit bedroom.

“Well, that’s not good,” Greg said, as Sherlock’s eyes closed again. “Pretty far down, that.”

“Did he take something on his own?” John asked. “It looks like he’s been dosed with morphine, and he acts the same way. But I swear…”

“No, I believe you,” Greg assured him. “It’s metabolic, like I said—just an outward sign of an inward problem. Probably wouldn’t have been so bad if he wasn’t coming off such severe starvation. But, as it is, he just doesn’t have any reserves.”

“But you know what we need to do?” John asked. “Is this something we can handle here, or does he need, I dunno, a special hospital?”

“We’ll have to see,” Greg said. “We need to start him on pure blood first. Small amounts—a quarter-cup every fifteen minutes or so. If he keeps that down, we’ll increase the volume, then go back to the smoothies after a couple of hours.”

They set up a rotation. John took the first half-hour, heating a small cup of blood in the microwave (“he _hates_ it cold,” Greg said), then holding it to Sherlock’s lips while supporting his head to keep him awake enough to drink. It was slow—Sherlock didn’t really seem interested, though he did swallow, at least.

John set a timer for the next fifteen-minute dose, and joined Greg on the couch to watch a replay of an old rugby match. He trotted back into the kitchen dutifully when the timer chimed, and was heartened to see that Sherlock seemed marginally more aware this time—the sips were bigger, and draining the small cup took less time. And, John realized gratefully, the detective hadn’t been ill again, nor did he seem likely to be.

By the end of the second hour, it was clear Sherlock was out of danger. He was awake enough to complain of a headache (which John took as a positive sign—a truly ill Sherlock was almost silent, as a rule), and managed to successfully finish half a cup of smoothie with no unfortunate results, though he remained lethargic and weak.

After one final dose of smoothie from Greg, Sherlock subsided into a true, deep sleep. “It’s probably best to let him be for a while,” the detective told John. “Let’s try doing the ‘every four hours’ bit now, and see how things go. You want first watch or second?”

“I’ll take first go,” John said. “You must be knackered, coming into this after a full day. You can kip in my bed upstairs, or the couch—whichever you’d like.”

Greg took the bed, after a quick visit to the loo. John settled in his chair with one of the books he rarely got to read, his phone set to alert him when it was time for the next smoothie. He was still reading when the timer beeped at 2 a.m.—he had pulled the vampire medical text out after an hour or so, and started reading it in-depth. This time, he was pleased to see that Sherlock woke enough to smile dopily when John presented him with the cup, before closing his eyes with a sigh and burrowing back under the duvet. When the alarm went off at six, Greg came staggering down the stairs, and John handed off his responsibility with a lighter heart than he’d had all the previous day.

 

 

 

When John woke, the sun was high in the sky, based on the light streaming through his bedroom windows. He came down the stairs, aware of more than a few aches and pains after his overnight shift, to see Greg sitting at the kitchen table, a sandwich in front of him, and what was presumably Sherlock on the couch, covered completely by the duvet from his bed.

John headed to the kettle before turning to raise his eyebrows at Greg, twitching his head towards the pile of bedding.

“Migraine,” Greg said. “His eyes are still dilated a bit, and the light was too much. I crushed some paracetamol in his last smoothie, but it didn’t really help.”

“I _told_ you so,” Sherlock’s muffled voice whinged from inside the duvet.

“Yes, and I told _you_ that, two hours from now, when you can start on solids again, I'll ask John to give you something a little stronger,” Greg said, with the air of someone who has had this conversation several times. “You can’t take tablets without food.”

“And, no, I won’t give you an injection,” John inserted, since he knew what Sherlock’s response would be. “Not sure how you’d react right now, with your metabolism bollixed up.”

An offended sniff sounded from the duvet. There was a flurry of rearrangement, until Sherlock and the duvet were now draped along the couch, with what was presumably Sherlock’s back towards his audience. It didn’t last, though—almost immediately, the bundle shifted back into an upright position. “Lying down makes me nauseous,” Sherlock muttered mournfully.

John felt a little penitent—it was rare that Sherlock admitted to feeling pain, and he _never_ played that card simply for sympathy. Struck by a sudden thought, John went to rummage in the freezer, pulling out his prize with a satisfied huff. He walked over to the couch, holding out the gel mask he’d used for a sinus infection some time ago.

He poked the duvet where Sherlock’s shoulder presumably was. “Here,” he said. “This should help, until we can give you something.”

A thin arm emerged, and John laid the mask in Sherlock’s palm, which then retreated into the wrapped bedding. The ensuing silence led John to believe the offering was acceptable.

John settled into preparing his own breakfast/lunch, while Greg plumped himself down in Sherlock’s chair and turned the telly on. Shortly thereafter, the duvet bundle slid slowly down to one side, and soft snores drifted out from inside.

Greg shared a look of relief with John. “It’s like getting a toddler down for a nap,” he said softly, with a wry grin. “I’ve done it more than you’d think, with this one.”

 

 

 

 

Sherlock slept for more than an hour, and, when he woke, immediately announced that he was ready for “real food” now. John looked inquiringly at Greg, and got a reluctant nod—it wasn’t worth fighting about another 45 minutes of what was a somewhat-arbitrary timeline. Sherlock once again requested dinner from Speedy’s, but John now knew better.

“Nope,” he said, as Sherlock scowled from under the edge of the duvet—light was still an issue, apparently. “We’re taking it slowly, this time: BRAT diet, for re-introducing solids. From what your brother’s book says, it’s no different for vampires, barring the addition of those unspeakable smoothies. Bananas, rice, applesauce, toast. I have all of those, right here.” Mycroft’s minions had dropped off John’s requested supplies half an hour ago. “Which do you want?”

The scowl deepened. “None of the above,” Sherlock said. “But I will compromise. Bananas, but add them to porridge. You can check with Mycroft if you insist, but it’s perfectly safe.”

“I’ll compromise as well,” John bargained. “You take a piece of toast and keep it down for thirty minutes, and I’ll make that porridge.”

“Only if you go ahead and give me something for my head with the toast,” Sherlock sniffed.

“When you pass thirty minutes, and I make the porridge,” John said sternly. “I’m not taking any chances this time.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, wavered, and sat back down, the scowl now dark and brow furrowed. “Then I will go to Speedy’s myself,” he spat.

John felt his temper rising. “You can’t get there on your own, and I’m not going,” he said sharply.

“I _will_ , see if I don’t,” Sherlock snarled, and tried once again to get up, unsuccessfully. John, temper still frayed, snickered before he could stop himself.

Sherlock was _livid_. “I’ll make Graham go,” he said, and looked imperiously over at Lestrade (who had hoped to be left out of this particular argument).

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, sunshine. Not going to go against doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock forced himself back to his feet, lurched to one side, then glared directly into Greg’s eyes—and John was startled to see a burst of green phosphorescence when he did. Greg’s reaction, though, was even more startling.

“Oh, no, you did not,” Greg breathed. “Do you really want me to mention to your brother that you _flashed_ me?”

Sherlock startled, as if suddenly coming back to himself. Then John watched, mystified, as a deep red blush rolled from the detective’s collarbones all the way to his hairline. Sherlock swallowed, ducked his head, and choked out a mortified “Sorry,” before dropping gracelessly back onto the couch and wrapping up in his duvet. Two minutes later, “I will take some toast, please,” wafted meekly from inside.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some of his answers, including some of Greg's backstory with Sherlock.

An hour later, toast, porridge, pain medication and one last smoothie had been successfully consumed, and Greg herded a fading Sherlock off to the loo and then bed, while John cleaned up in the kitchen. When Greg came back out, he dropped onto the couch with a relieved sigh and gave John a knowing grin.

“So,” he said, “questions, right?”

“I’d say so,” John said. “One or two. Thousand, that is.”

“Can’t say I can answer them all, but I’ll give it a shot,” Greg said, with a stretch and a yawn. “First?”

“OK, um, ‘flashing’? What the hell was that all about, and why was he so embarrassed?” John began.

Greg’s grin got even broader. “Oh, that was classic,” he chortled. “Now, to be fair, he probably wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t so flattened at the moment. But it’s, well, it’s a vamp dominance thing. Instinctive, usually—like wolves staring each other down. It’s Just Not On to do it to friends or family—worse than dropping trou in public, really. Kids learn not to from a very early age. I’ve only ever seen him do it once before, and that was when he was completely off his tits and trying to scare me away. Showed me his teeth that time too, actually. Mycroft went spare when he saw the CCTV.”

“So how long have you known? I mean, about both of them?” John asked.

“Um, about…seven years, I guess,” Greg said. “Sherlock had already started working on cases, and was doing reasonably well between relapses.” He saw John’s face and stopped. “OK, not going to mince words, John. Sherlock was still very much a junkie, back then. He’d be clean for two or three months, then go missing suddenly. After a couple of rounds of that, he’d disappear for longer, and Mycroft would let me know he’d gone off to rehab again. He went in three times before it finally stuck.”

John nodded encouragingly—he’d heard that story before, some of it from Sherlock himself, some from Molly.

“So, just about the time of one of his relapses, we worked on a case together—undercover, so we went to this waterfront bar posing as workmates,” Greg continued. “He was really on edge—nearing a relapse, like I said—and hadn’t been eating or sleeping much. As I found out later, he hadn’t been taking blood like he should have, either. We got into a bit of a scuffle with employees of our suspect, and they bashed our heads and threw us into a skip together, with our hands and feet tied up pretty tight. I woke up in about five minutes, but I couldn’t get him to stay awake—you know why, now, but I didn’t at the time. Thought he might have a concussion, since I knew he was clean--he’d been with me all day.”

Greg scooted down in the chair and scuffed off his shoes with a sigh before continuing. “So, anyway, I was really concerned because his eyes were so dilated, once he finally woke, and he seemed so sleepy. As time went on, though, he started to get panicky, which was really out of character, y’know? I mean, granted, he was just a kid at the time, but still...”

“Wait a minute,” John interrupted. “Wasn’t he, oh, 25 or 26? Young, yeah, but not exactly a ‘kid’ to get scared of a little roughing up.”

Greg shook his head. “Forgot you didn’t know about that,” he said. “See, among other things, they mature slower than we do. You can usually knock 8 to 10 years off their chronological age, at least in their first 40 years or so. I didn’t know how old he was when we met, in fact—but I assumed he was 18, maybe 19. I mean, when you met him he had just turned 29, and was still in the tail end of adolescence, for them.”

John gave a crack of surprised laughter. “Oh, that explains so much!” he snickered. “Teenage hormones, by God. And why he looked 12.”

Greg chuckled as well. “Yeah, he was a bit miffed about that comment—don’t think he told you, though.” John shook his head, still amused.

“So, going back to the story,” Greg said, “we’d been in the skip about an hour when things got a little, um, _strained_. Neither of us had phones, it was cold, it was dark, and Sherlock was, as it turned out, really, really hungry, in the vamp sense of the word. He got more and more panicked—I realize now that he was afraid he’d hurt me, if he lost control.” Greg stopped, then looked sternly at John. “Understand, I have never seen him bite _anyone_ —never even came close. From what Myc says, he had something bad happen when he had just transitioned—12 or 13, somewhere in there, when they get their secondary teeth and claws--and he, well, he jumped one of the older kids at school after the boy hit him. Hazing, you know. I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Even though the other kid was much bigger, and much older, it wasn’t what you’d call a fair fight, considering. The kid survived, but it took a lot of money and effort to cover it up, and Sherlock had to change schools. He swore he’d never harm anyone that way again, and as far as I know, he hasn’t. That’s partly why he’s in such bad shape now, in fact—refused to go after his captors.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” John said. “Mycroft mentioned it, when he was explaining this whole…thing,” John said, waving his hand to encompass the general weirdness of it all.

“So, anyway,” Greg continued. “He was getting so frantic that I asked him what was wrong—tried to calm him down, you know, like you do with kids who are in over their heads. Sure you’ve done the same with new recruits.”

John nodded.

“He finally said that he had to get out of there, right now,” Greg said. “Had to. Couldn’t tell me why, and he was starting to hyperventilate a bit. So, I asked him what he wanted me to do—and he said ‘close your eyes’. And I did—I mean, at first, just to humour him, give him a chance to calm down.”

Greg then held out his left arm and pushed up his shirt sleeve, exposing a good-sized white scar, roughly an inch long and perhaps a half-inch wide, over the inner wrist bone. “Then that happened. I jerked and opened my eyes from the pain, and saw that he had just used claws— _claws_! —to cut the zip ties. See, his hands were shaking, and he overshot and hooked one of them in my wrist, and then it got yanked out when I startled him. Made a hell of a mess, and Sherlock almost passed out—thought he’d killed me after all.”

Greg pulled his arm back, and stretched again. “I managed to tie Sherlock’s scarf around it, and convince him I wasn’t in danger of dying. And I told him, since I’d already seen his claws, he might as well use them and get us the rest of the way free. By that time, he was getting pretty drowsy again, more than before—stress makes it worse, you know, when they’re short of nutrients anyway. I managed to climb up to the edge of the skip, and had to pull him out. As soon as we got to a main street, I went into the first shop we saw and called Mycroft, and the rest is history. I got the same talk I suspect you got, though he didn’t loan me the book—guess he figured I didn’t need the biochemistry explanation.”

John was surprised at how matter-of-fact Greg was about something that, to the average layperson, would sound like something out of a bad movie scenario. “So, you just accepted it? I mean, yeah, Sherlock looks the part, but _Mycroft_?”

Greg gave a crack of laughter. “I know, right? Mr. Three Piece Suit, who looks like he’s never so much as broken a nail in his life?” He sobered then, just a bit. “Here’s the thing, though—Sherlock refers to Myc as ‘the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet’. And I don’t think he means just his political power, you know? Like I said, the man has power, a temper, _and_ fangs and claws.”

John chuckled. “So, you never had any problems—any vamp-related problems, that is—with Sherlock? I don’t know how ‘instinctive’ some of these things are for him, or if there are things I shouldn’t do, or things I should. Don’t want to inadvertently cause problems, y’know?”

Greg shook his head. “Sherlock usually has _really_ good control,” he said. “Only time he’s ever had a problem has been when he’s either drugged up, or he’s forgotten to, um, ‘eat’ properly.” He raised his eyebrows to indicate the eating referred to didn’t include food.

“What does that mean?” John said, getting mildly frustrated. “How often is ‘enough’? How long is dangerous? What should I watch for—signs of trouble, signs of him neglecting himself? And what do I do if I think he is?”

“Ask him,” Greg said, shrugging his shoulders. “Or ask Mycroft, if you have to. I mean, he loaned you the book—that would imply he thinks you’re trustworthy enough to know the details.”

“You never asked?” John said.

Greg shook his head. “When I first found out, Mycroft was much cagier about it than he is now. And I guess I just assumed I’d find out if it became relevant.” He stopped, and frowned. “Tell you the truth, I was thinking about that yesterday, sort of. I wondered how they handled things while Sherlock was Away—I mean, we know he wasn’t going around biting people, but he wouldn’t have access to his usual sources. And I came to the conclusion that he probably spent a lot of time hungry, particularly while he was held captive. I _did_ ask Mycroft about that bit, actually—come to find out, some of his captors were vamps as well. So they gave him enough to keep him alive, but that was as far as it went.”

“And beat the crap out of him, to boot,” John said bitterly. “On the regular, apparently.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. Almost made me wish he weren’t quite so ‘principled’, y’know?  I mean, at this point, I’d rip their heads off _myself_ and never miss a moment’s sleep.”

 

 

 

Greg left not long after, but not before giving John carte blanche to call, any time, with vamp-related concerns. John smiled and nodded, but hoped he’d have a better option available, once he’d talked to Mycroft.

When John went in to give Sherlock his next smoothie, at 10 pm, he was pleased (and surprised) to find his friend awake and relatively alert.

“How’s your head?” John asked, as Sherlock slurped away. “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not really. The porridge was quite filling.” He finished off the last of the smoothie before handing John the mug. “I think one more day of these should be adequate.” He wrinkled his nose. “They’ve never been a favorite of mine.”

“Well, as to that, we’ll see what your brother has to say—he’s supposed to stop by tomorrow or the next day,” John said. Sherlock scowled, but stayed silent. John hesitated a moment before continuing.

“Um…when he comes, we need to have a serious conversation about all of this, Sherlock,” John said soberly. “I’m completely out of my depth here, you know?”

He was startled to see Sherlock’s face freeze, before slipping into the blank mask the detective used to mask…well, _everything_. It was not something he normally did to _John_ , though.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. “Do you feel sick?” He looked around for the bin.

“No,” Sherlock said harshly, before sliding back down under the duvet and turning his back to John. “I’m just tired. Good night.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally gets to the bottom of things, and wishes he could engage in some retroactive arse-kicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should be just an epilogue to go. Enjoy--this is my latest little brain-break.

John was concerned about Sherlock’s sudden shift in attitude. He had the feeling he’d missed something, something _important_. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. After standing indecisively in the kitchen for better than 5 minutes, he finally decided to try again to get Sherlock to tell him what was wrong in the morning.

As it happened, he didn’t have to wait that long.

John had dutifully set his alarm for 2 am, to prepare Sherlock’s next smoothie. After last night, he wasn’t inclined to stay up, and drifted quickly off to a dreamless sleep, awakening with a jerk to the piercing chimes. He staggered down the stairs, half-awake, and made a quick, quiet stop in the loo before heading into the kitchen.

John was pleased that no sound had come from Sherlock’s bedroom—his effort at being quiet had evidently succeeded. He wanted to avoid waking his friend; unless he was in one of his post-case comas, the slightest noise tended to wake the detective, leading to a day-long strop much like that of a toddler missing his nap.

That momentary glow of satisfaction at navigating the loo and kitchen successfully made it all the more startling, then, when John switched on the light and saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, an empty mug gripped tightly in bony fingers. John was sure Sherlock noticed his involuntary twitch, but the younger man made no comment.

After an uncomfortably long silence, John finally spoke, since it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to.

“Did you get hungry, then? Decided to make it yourself, then discovered you’re still too poorly?” he asked, reaching to take the mug from Sherlock, only to have it clasped more firmly in those spidery hands.

John’s eyebrows climbed into his fringe. “What now?” he asked, exasperated. “Give me the cup, and I’ll make your smoothie. Then we can both go back to bed. I’ll even make extra, if you’re that hungry.”

Sherlock continued to stare down at the tabletop, clutching the cup like a lifeline. “Just say it,” he suddenly rasped. “Say it, and get it over with. We don’t need to wait for Mycroft.”

John was lost, completely lost. “I don’t…what do you mean? We _do_ need him—I need to talk to him too. I told you that.”

Sherlock suddenly erupted from his chair, face pale, hands shaking. “I know you are many things, John, but I never realized you could be _cruel_.”

John held out his hands, trying to pacify his friend long enough to find out what the hell was going through his head. “Calm down, OK? You’ll make yourself ill again. Tell me what’s wrong, and we’ll fix it.”

“ _What do you care?_ ” Sherlock snarled, and launched the mug violently at the kitchen wall behind John’s head. John flinched, then goggled at the three-inch shard of earthenware imbedded an inch deep into the plaster.

“Well, of course I care,” John said faintly. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“Of course you would,” Sherlock sneered, the shaking in his hands having now spread to the rest of him. “You’d treat a _serial killer_ , long enough to see them out of danger. But, now that the danger has passed, you have decided that some things are simply too outré to endure long-term. Body parts in the fridge are borderline, but acceptable. Congenital rudeness is annoying, but you hoped to wean me of it eventually. But _drinking blood_ —that’s apparently your ‘line in the sand’. Being a member of a different sub-species is evidently an acceptable prejudice to entertain. So just tell me when you plan to leave, and I will pass on your regrets to my brother. I will accept your departure, but I refuse to allow you to humiliate me in front of him.”

John blinked, opened his mouth, then blinked again, before finally managing to reply. “You thought—no, Sherlock. No. That’s not—I wanted to talk to your brother about getting medical training. _Vampire_ medical training, you numpty. I’m not _leaving_.”

He suddenly lunged forward, as Sherlock’s face went grey and his eyelids fluttered. “Christ. Sit down before you fall down.” John half-walked, half-carried the taller man to his chair, grabbing the tatty afghan off the back to wrap around him.

John pushed Sherlock’s head down onto his knees, and gently rested his hand on his friend’s trembling back. Sherlock slid his hands up to cover his face, but made no sound. Finally, though, after several minutes, the detective gave a small sigh and slowly sat up, while John stood by watchfully.

“Better?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, a deep blush rising from his neck to his hairline.

“I seem to have…miscalculated,” Sherlock said finally, in a wisp of a voice. He avoided making eye contact, keeping his gaze on his hands, currently clasped tightly in his lap.

‘Yeah, I’d say so,” John said, dropping into his own chair. “Now, I’m going to go make you a smoothie in a minute, and then we’ll both go back to bed. I might try and give you a bit of a sedative, if you think you need it. But, before that, I think we do need to talk a little bit.” He leaned forward, until he could tap gently on Sherlock’s knee. “Look up, please.”

Sherlock slowly did so, with just a bit of hesitancy.

“You really need to _ask me_ before you get so upset about things,” John said gently. “That big brain is good at a lot of things, but actually reading minds isn’t one of them.”

Sherlock had rallied enough to bristle at that. “It was _logical_ ,” he sniffed. “I was positive that Lestrade had told you about my…about the incident at school. I refuse to believe that you weren’t appalled and troubled by it. _I tried to kill someone_ , John. That being the case, when you requested to speak to Mycroft and me together, it wasn’t a great leap to assume—”

“And what do you always say about the danger of assumptions?” John asked sweetly, and was rewarded by yet another Sherlockian flush. He took advantage of his friend’s discomfiture to respond to Sherlock’s underlying implication—a mistaken implication, as it happened.

“Since you brought it up, let’s talk about that ‘incident’, shall we? Since you seem to think my take on it is very different than it actually is,” John said.

Sherlock scowled, but stayed silent.

“So, this happened when you were…?” John asked. “And, while we’re on the subject, your height and weight at the time, please.”

“I was 12, almost 13,” Sherlock said grudgingly. “Just over 5 feet tall; about 6 stone.”

“And your attacker?” John asked.

“My _victim_ , you mean?” Sherlock said, with a sneer.

“Nope. I was right the first time. Answer the question,” John replied firmly.

“18. Five feet eleven; roughly 12 stone,” Sherlock huffed. “But it doesn’t—”

“Humour me,” John said patiently. “Now, what did he do to you? What set things off?”

“He came up behind me on the walkway between buildings,” Sherlock said. “Grabbed my arms, and then put his hand on my head and shoved it into the brick wall.”

“Why? Had the two of you had any previous dealings? Did you piss in his porridge, set his sheets on fire, film him on the toilet and post it somewhere?” John asked, not entirely joking.

“No. Though the last would have been quite satisfying,” Sherlock said. “My crime was in being Mycroft Holmes’ baby brother. Mycroft had beaten him soundly in the competition for a major school prize, two years before, and then buggered off early to university.”

“OK, so, unprovoked attack on a much younger, much smaller individual,” John said. “Any injuries?” Sherlock gave him an astounded look. John frowned. “To _you_ , Sherlock—to you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, fingering his scalp on the left side of his head, just above the hairline. “Laid my head open—required five or six stitches. I don’t recall, exactly. I was a little confused at the time, what with my victim _fighting for his life_.” The last was said in an acid snarl.

“So, he slammed you into the wall, hard enough to cause serious damage,” John said. “Did you jump him right away? Did you think ‘I’m going to kill him’? Intentionally use your claws and teeth?”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit disturbed. “I was…I don’t exactly remember what I thought. The blood was…”

“His blood?” John said curiously.

“No, mine,” Sherlock said. “He wasn’t bleeding yet, of course.” He was wearing the ‘you really are an idiot, aren’t you?’ face.

“Then what did your blood have to do with it? Did it, I dunno, frighten you, that you were bleeding? Maybe bleeding a lot?” It seemed unlikely—adult Sherlock had a staggering indifference to his own injuries, generally. But maybe Little Boy Sherlock was more delicate.

The ‘you’re an idiot’ look deepened, and an air of mild offense was added to it.

“No, it was instinct,” Sherlock said. “The blood,” as if that explained it.

“Wait a minute,” John said, the light dawning. “Your own blood triggered you? A defensive thing?”

“Atavistic,” Sherlock said, slightly shame-faced. “Not something that should happen, and certainly something I had been taught to control from the time I could walk.”

“Unless some wanker slams your head into a wall, hard enough that you can’t remember to this day exactly what happened,” John said.

“John,” Sherlock said with exaggerated patience. “I tried to _rip out his throat_. I would have succeeded, if he hadn’t managed to knock me off him long enough to put a heavy, locked door between us. I didn’t come back to myself until a teacher heard the shouting and knocked me down—I was still trying to get through the door.”

“ _Knocked you down?_ ” John said. “You weighed _six stone_ , for God’s sake. All they needed to do was grab your arms and hold on.”

“I would have broken the teacher’s arm, if not worse,” Sherlock said. “Vampire, remember? Though, as it happened, the teacher was also a vampire. Several at our school were—well, that school, anyway. So I didn’t hurt him.  I was glad, afterward.  I quite liked him.”

“Which takes me back to my original point. Didn’t have to knock you down,” John huffed, still affronted on Sherlock’s behalf.

Sherlock glared. “You are intentionally missing the point,” he said.

“No, _you_ are,” said John. “My point is, I am not horrified by The Incident.” He made air quotes, to make sure Sherlock noticed the slight sarcasm. “I’m _saddened_ by it—it must have been horrible for you, especially since you had to change schools. I’m glad the kid didn’t die, for both your sakes. But he sounds like a nasty little piece of work, and the moral of the story is, don’t be a bully, since your intended victim may turn out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. So to speak.” He waggled his eyebrows, to make sure Sherlock knew the pun was intentional.

Sherlock was, well, _taken aback_ would be the best description. It was clear that he didn’t quite believe John’s assessment of the situation, and was unsure if John was having him on in some way.

“So, in point of fact, you don’t…you are not…the fact that I am not fully human doesn’t concern you?” Sherlock stammered. The last portion came out so quickly it was difficult to understand.

“How are you not ‘fully human’?” John said. “Where did you get that idea?”

Sherlock was silent, but had that face he sometimes got—the one where he was hurt, and didn’t want to reveal it. It didn’t happen often—Sherlock was largely impervious to most people, after all. But when it did, it struck John to the core.

“Sherlock. Who told you that?” John said, sensing that this was important. “Did someone say that to you?”

“The headmaster. At school,” Sherlock said to his hands, laced tightly in front of him.

“When?” John asked.

“When I was in hospital,” Sherlock said, still addressing his hands. “He came to my room. The nurse wouldn’t let him in, and he was angry. They thought I was asleep, but I could hear them. He said I was a ‘feral little savage’, and that we, that vampires, were just ‘monsters doing an ersatz impression of humanity’.  And I, evidently, did a ‘particularly piss-poor version’.”

He cleared his throat before continuing, in a somewhat lighter tone. “It was rather brave of him, I suppose. It was a vampire medical facility, after all. He knew of us, of course—had to, for us to attend the school—but had evidently hidden his true feelings about us up to that point.”

“Where were your parents?” John said, finding the whole scenario disturbing, and wishing he could send himself back in time to go kick someone’s arse—not for the first time, on hearing stories of Sherlock’s childhood. “And why did he come to your room?”

“They had gone to dinner, I believe,” Sherlock said. “I had been asleep for a while, and woke up to the argument outside the door. And, as to why he came—I assume it was to berate me in person, since I was taken to hospital before he got the chance to do so at school.”

“At…Sherlock, had he done that before? ‘Berated’ you?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Well, yes, of course.”

“Why?” John said. “Were you, I dunno, a problem child for some reason—I mean, some reason other than being smarter than the entire student body?”

Sherlock smirked. “And the faculty,” he said. “But in this case, it was rather more personal. I should perhaps have mentioned that Ja… _my victim_ was both the Head Boy, and the headmaster’s nephew.” He looked thoughtful momentarily. “Oh. I had forgotten—perhaps one more motivation, on both their parts. I had beaten Ja…the nephew in a memory competition, two days previously.”

“OK, two things here,” John said. “First—you can say his name. James, presumably. Unless it disturbs you for some reason.” Sherlock looked offended, but stayed silent. “And second—what did your parents say? Was the headmaster the reason you had to change schools?”

Sherlock blinked, an incredulous expression on his face. “The _headmaster_? Did you miss the whole ‘I tried to kill another student’ bit?”

“No, nor did I miss the ‘much older student jumped a child and tried to brain him’ bit,” John retorted. “And again—what did your parents say when you told them about the headmaster? Did they try to get him sacked?”

The silence stretched, just a little too long, while Sherlock was once again interested in his hands.

“You didn’t tell them,” John said incredulously. “Why not, for God’s sake?”

“Because _it didn’t matter_ ,” Sherlock snarled, lurching back to his feet. “In the end, he was right. I have never been especially good at aping ‘humanity’. Ask anyone. Ask _Donovan_.” He staggered, then, before sitting back down abruptly.

With that, John’s last nerve snapped. He stalked back into the kitchen, quickly whipped up a smoothie, and shoved it into Sherlock’s unresisting hands before speaking.

Once his friend began sucking on the straw, John took a deep breath and spoke.

“Right, then. I’m pants at this kind of thing, just so you know, so I’m only going to say this once. You tuck it away in your Mind Palace for future reference, because it’s important. You got that?”

He waited, while Sherlock blinked, then nodded hesitantly.

“First—that headmaster was a right bastard,” John began, “and when Mycroft comes by I’m going to ask him to make sure he’s not still working there, and tell Mycroft why.” He saw the look on Sherlock’s face, and returned it with a mulish look of his own. “Not up for discussion.”

“Second—you are one of the most ‘human’ people I know, for better or worse,” John continued. “You’re rude, you’re arrogant, you’re spectacularly ignorant of a whole range of things other people consider important—but you will also take money out of your own pocket to buy food and clothing for your Homeless Network, or have your brother help get a kid off the streets and never tell anyone.”

He was pleased to see Sherlock’s mouth open in an unflattering gape. “See—I _do_ observe, after all.”

“And third—and most important—you are not, nor have you ever been, a ‘monster’,” John said firmly. “A true monster would enjoy those teeth and claws, would have used them whenever it was convenient, would never worry about harming other people. In your case, you nearly _died_ because you refused to use your natural weapons against criminals who would have let you die and never batted an eye. If you were dangerous when you were 12, I shudder to think what you could do now, if you wanted to. But, here’s the thing, Sherlock—I don’t think I’ll ever know, because you will never attack anyone that way, will you? Unless there is absolutely no alternative?”

“No,” Sherlock muttered.

John gave a pleased huff. “Glad we agree, then,” he said happily. “Oh, and one more thing—I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were a monster. And I plan to be here for as long as you want me. So, no more of this, yeah? Can we go back to bed now?”

“After toast,” Sherlock said after a pause, as he held out his empty mug imperiously. “And a banana.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are back to normal--well, as normal as things get in a household consisting of an invalided combat surgeon, a drug cartel widow, and a reluctant vampire. But it would seem that John has another surprise or two coming his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this will wrap this one up--still fluff, with vampires. But, fear not--I'm quite sure I'll be revisiting this 'verse--it's just too much fun not to.

_Three months later_

 

“ _No_. I’ve already told you—Mrs. H. asked us to watch her sister’s dog, and I agreed. He’s utterly harmless—even you can’t be bothered by a Shih Tzu,” John said firmly. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s _three hours_. You can survive three hours, surely.” Now, granted, Mr. Tink wasn’t a _nice_ Shih Tzu—he was spoilt, yippy and prone to biting when crossed—but still, Sherlock could deal if he really wanted to.

The tightly-wrapped bundle of duvet and detective draped across the couch rolled even more tightly towards the back cushions, to emphasize its utter rejection of the world.

John was struck, not for the first time, by just how childlike a stroppy Sherlock could be. Right, then—maybe treat him like one as well.

“If you come out and make nice, I’ll give you those last three pieces of fudge that I hid,” John said, making no attempt to hide his amusement.

The duvet emitted a dismissive sniff.

“Oh, for—all right,” John said resignedly. “I’ll let you taste a blood sample. A _tiny_ one, mind you. And this is the _only_ time.”

The duvet exploded in a flurry of cotton and wiry limbs. Sherlock’s head poked out like a rabbit from his hole, eyes glittering with excitement.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’ll draw it and let me taste immediately? No requiring that Molly test it for everything under the sun first?” That had been a major point of contention for weeks now. Sherlock had some sort of bizarre theory that he could identify blood types, sex and, to some degree, age of the individual simply through tasting a fresh sample. He had managed to secure blood from Greg, Molly and (as it turned out) Mrs. H. in the past, but John had resisted—given both his relatively recent exposure to battlefield surgery, and his ongoing work as a fill-in doctor at King’s College A&E, he was uncomfortable with the idea of providing blood without any kind of pre-check, even though Sherlock had told him vampires were immune to most blood-borne pathogens.

“Most”, however, didn’t mean “all”—as John had confirmed with Mycroft, who seemed just as bemused by Sherlock’s obsession as John was.

As it happened, though, letting Sherlock have his taste now was probably as safe as it would ever be. The medical staff were normally tested every three months, and John wasn’t officially due for another 45 days. But a recent scare—a discovery that the last batch of samples had been improperly stored prior to testing—meant that everyone had been required to submit to an early re-test. The results had been reported two days ago, and John, as he expected, had been clear of all dangerous contaminants.

“Yeah, if you stop whinging about the dog, _and_ promise to behave while he’s here,” John said. “And you don’t tell _anyone_ I let you do this. Especially your brother.” The last thing John wanted was for someone not “in the know” about Sherlock’s nature to hear him burbling about John letting him _taste his blood._ They’d take his license. And Mycroft—while John’s license wouldn’t be at risk, he was sure Mycroft would be very, very displeased at John’s indulging one of Sherlock’s less-socially-acceptable quirks.

Sherlock nodded, curls bobbing briskly. “Of course, John,” he said, his most-earnest look in place (which, did he but know, gave John pause simply because he knew how insincere it generally was).

John dutifully went and grabbed the necessary equipment from his kit under the bathroom sink, while Sherlock hovered, vibrating with excitement. He drew up a very small amount of blood into a syringe, then capped it, held a cotton ball briefly over the injection site, and slapped a small plaster over it before finally holding the syringe out to Sherlock, who immediately took it, tilted his head back slightly, and depressed the plunger to drop the still-warm liquid onto his waiting tongue.

The detective closed his eyes as he swished the sample inside his mouth with audible vigor. He made little pleased sounds, while John found a fond grin creeping across his own face.

After nearly five minutes, during which Sherlock had clearly retreated into his Mind Palace while still standing in the kitchen, John broke the silence.

“Well,” he said, “was it worth it? Did you get any useful information from that? Or did you just like the taste?” It was odd, how easily he’d gotten used to Sherlock’s blood consumption. These days, John viewed it more like medication than food, especially now that he knew that Molly was Sherlock’s long-time provider via a hidden annex in the hospital blood bank (one that virtually every modern blood bank also had, evidently. Blood unadulterated by any kind of preservatives or other chemicals—they affected the taste, or so Sherlock claimed). John certainly never felt threatened by any vampire he’d met (and he’d met a surprising number, now that it was acceptable that he knew their true nature).

Sherlock’s eyes popped open with a scandalized look. “This is for _science_ , John. Once I have a broad enough sample, I intend to submit a paper to a very prestigious journal.” He paused, then gave that earnest look again. “A _vampire_ journal,” he said, as if John were too dim to have figured that out.

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, got that, ta,” he said. “What information are you obtaining, then?”

“Well, you knew about age, sex, that kind of thing,” Sherlock said, airily waving one long, pale hand. “But the rest…” his brow bunched as he trailed into frustrated silence. “It’s not…there are…I’m afraid there aren’t actually human counterparts for part of this,” he finally said.

“ _Non-vampire_ counterparts,” John corrected firmly. “You’re not ‘non-human’.” John had been quite militant about that—he was determined to break Sherlock of thinking of himself as something other than human.

It was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mummy,” he said, before giving John that rare, sweet smile that crept out every now and again, and made John’s day. “And I’ll be very good.”

 

 

 

He wasn’t, actually. From the moment Mrs. H. brought the dog upstairs, Sherlock was in a snit. He scowled as the little animal bustled from room to room, checking out new scents; he sneered when Mr. Tink jumped up on the couch next to John to watch telly; he left the room (in a definite flounce) when John coaxed the little dog to beg for treats.

After the third time the detective slammed his bedroom door, before slouching back out five minutes later (because, even though he wanted to Make A Point, he didn’t actually want to _stay_ in his bedroom, after all), John had had enough.

“Mycroft was right,” he said, shaking his head. “He told me you found it impossible to act like an adult for more than an hour at a time. Based on this, an hour was optimistic.”

That pulled Sherlock up short. A mulish expression flowed over his face. “My brother is a pompous arse. And I can be as adult as I choose to be.” He saw John’s doubting expression, and scowled.

“I’ll prove it,” he said grandly. “Go for a walk. Go to Tesco. Do whatever you like, but leave me with the repellent animal for an hour. And when you come back and find things perfectly fine, I expect an apology. A _real_ one, not one of those ‘I’m just saying this to get you to shut up’ ones.”

Because, to be honest, John did do that, depressingly often. Evidently Sherlock had finally begun to recognize the difference.

 

 

 

John didn’t go far, nor did he stay long. Just a quick trip down the street to Tesco, to pick up eggs and bread, and then straight back. When he returned, he was pleasantly surprised to find everything quiet and, well, as normal as Baker Street ever got. Sherlock was engrossed in something that involved going back and forth between his microscope and his evidence wall; Mr. Tink lay sprawled out across the doorway from the lounge to the stairwell, eyeing Sherlock with suspicion (though he ignored John).

Sherlock seemed to not notice John’s return; he’d presumably surface at some point and demand his apology, but John was prepared to wait. About ten minutes after John came home, Mrs. Hudson wandered upstairs as well—she’s gotten back from her errands early, and brought up a tray of scones to share. John made tea, and he and Mrs. H. settled in the lounge to watch this week’s British Bakeoff. Sherlock continued to bustle back and forth, ignoring both them and Mr. Tink.

When the show was over, John went upstairs to do a bit of cleaning, leaving Mrs. H. to pick up the tea things. He was sorting through the laundry tub, absently debating whether it could wait another day or two, when he heard a slight commotion downstairs—a high-pitched yip from Mr. Tink, and a peculiar sound—a cross between a hiss and a growl—that could only have come from Sherlock.

By the time John had hustled out to the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson had swept Mr. Tink up in her arms, and bullied Sherlock to the couch, where he sat, head down, as Mrs. H. embarked on a thundering scold.

“You should be ashamed,” she said, as Sherlock glowered at his feet. “Frightening this poor little mite.” To be fair, the dog did seem traumatized, and there was a suspicious puddle on the wood floor by the entranceway.

Sherlock’s head came up. “He started it,” the vampire said defensively. “He _bit_ me!”

“Don’t you dare show me those teeth, young man!” Mrs. Hudson said sternly. “What would your mother say?”

 

 

Because, of course, Mrs. Hudson also knew what Sherlock was (and had allowed him to store his blood bags in her fridge for the past year or more). And, being Mrs. Hudson, she was completely unconcerned. John had asked her, once he realized she knew, when that happened (since he knew Sherlock would never discuss it).

“Oh, well, he did something very stupid,” she said softly. “It was when you went on that trip to New Zealand, John, with that lovely redheaded doctor. He was…well, sad, I suppose. And the longer you were gone, the worse it got. So finally, one evening, he went out and bought something.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Drugs, you know. Cocaine, I think. Anyway, I heard a thump and came dashing up the stairs, and found him lying in the kitchen floor. He didn’t know me—didn’t know where he was, in fact. And his teeth and claws were out.”

She saw John’s face, and shook her head. “Oh, no, dear, I wasn’t in the least afraid—though I was surprised, certainly. But he wasn’t really frightening at all—weak as a kitten, poor lamb, and completely off his head. I tried to help him up, but he kept hissing at me and trying to get away. I finally had to call his brother.”

She shook her head sadly. “Come to find out, he’d mixed the drugs with his blood supply, as an experiment—or so he said. He told me all about it the next day—he was so afraid I’d turf him out. Or tell you—I don’t know which he feared more, honestly.”

She paused, giving John a significant look. “I made him go stay with his brother until you returned, and told him I wouldn’t tell you if he promised to come tell me before he got to that state again, if he _swore_. And, as far as I know, he’s kept that promise.” She looked into John’s eyes. “Please don’t tell him I told you. He was so ashamed.”

John agreed. Of course, he agreed.

 

 

Now, though, John wasn’t feeling quite as agreeable. After Mrs. H. swept back down the stairs, Mr. Tink in her arms, John took her place in front of the couch. He pointed to the puddle in front of the door.

“You’re cleaning that up,” he said. “And I get to tell your brother you flashed your teeth, if he asks.”

Sherlock’s head shot up. “That’s not fair!” he said. “That horrid little beast _bit_ me! And I never actually touched him.” His teeth were still in evidence, peeking out from beneath his upper lip.

“No, you just hissed at him and showed him your teeth,” John said. “And put them _away_ , mate, really.”

Sherlock scowled and looked back down at his feet. “Can’t, yet,” he muttered. “ _Instinct_.” He said the last as if uttering a curse word, thought the effect was spoilt by the fact that the extra teeth gave him just a hint of a lisp. He was clearly aware of that, as well—his cheeks flushed a rosy pink, as did the tips of his ears.

“What, really?” John said, unable to repress the broad grin sliding across his face. “From a _Shih Tzu_?”

“He’s a _predator_ , John,” Sherlock said bitterly. “My instincts recognize him as such. And, since I was in my Mind Palace when he launched his unprovoked attack, my higher functions were unable to intervene in time to stop the ensuing response and threat display.”

John didn’t laugh. But it was very, very close. Sherlock huffed, and stomped off to clean up the floor. But not before John snapped a photo to send Greg Lestrade.

 

 

 

By that evening, things had settled down. Sherlock’s teeth had finally agreed to go back into hiding, and John (by this time feeling a tad guilty, making fun of his friend for something he honestly had no control over—even if it was a _Shih Tzu_ , my _God_ ) made Sherlock’s favorite pasta for dinner, earning him an honest smile after an afternoon of glowers, sighs and offended sniffs.

After they’d both eaten their fill, Sherlock draped himself gracefully along the couch with a contented sigh, while John went back into the kitchen to do the cleaning up.

While he worked, John reflected idly on the past three months. He’d thought that his initial entry into Sherlock’s life had been the biggest change—being part of Sherlock’s Work, following his mad genius around London. Now, though, he lived in a bigger world than he’d thought possible—with a type of creature, human though he may also be, that John would have sworn was a tale to frighten children.

Speaking of—he’d had an idle thought that had made him chuckle earlier.

“Sherlock?” he said.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, not completely taking his focus from his phone, but giving John at least part of his attention.

“I was just laughing to myself, earlier. One of those mad ‘Twilight’ movies was on telly.” He paused when he saw Sherlock make a face like he’d sucked a lemon. “Yeah, I know, stupid. But what made me laugh was to think of us, and your family, and the way those movies worked. And I suddenly thought, you know, that if we wanted to _really_ make things strange, one of your other friends needs to turn out to be a werewolf. I mean, honestly—can’t you see it? Greg Lestrade, for example. He’d make a _great_ werewolf, wouldn’t he?” John finished, breaking into gales of laughter, waiting for Sherlock to join him with those deep chuckles of his.

And then, then—he realized that Sherlock was sitting up on the couch, his eyes like marbles, mouth agape.

“Well, bugger,” John said weakly.


End file.
